Growing older and liv’in life ain’t for sissies. After forty-four years, Faye knew this Bette Davis maxim to be an irrefutable fact. She sat on the cool terra cotta floor of her newly rented Key West bungalow reading the torn piece of binder paper on which Michael had written his thoughts. She felt a trespasser but didn’t stop reading. The words made her heart weep with his pain. She found it quite curious that he had neatly folded the crumpled paper in half and paper-clipped it to a glossy photo page of young innocent faces found at the bottom of one of the brown cardboard moving boxes he had kept out of the storage unit.
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